Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

'I don't quite follow you.'

'Wouldn't you need a bit of advice if you called in at some place selling surgical appliances? With Elton's great beer-gut they'll probably think he's called in for a temporary truss.'

Lewis didn't argue.

He knew better.

Also OBE, as Lewis had already discovered, was Item 5. The address Owens had written on the letter was - had been - that of a home for the mentally handicapped in Wimbledon. A Social Services inspection had uncovered gross and negligent malpractices; and the establishment had been closed down two years previously, its management and nursing staff redeployed or declared redundant. Yet no prosecutions had ensued.

'Forlorn hope,' Lewis had ventured.

And Morse had agreed. 'Did you know that 'forlorn hope' has got nothing to do with 'forlorn' or 'hope'? It's all Dutch: 'Verloren hoop' - 'lost troop'.'

'Very useful to know, sir.'

Seemingly oblivious to such sarcasm, Morse contemplated once more the four sets of initials that comprised Item 6:

AM DC JS CB

with those small ticks in red Biro set against the first three of them.

'Any ideas?' asked Lewis.

''Jonathan Swift', obviously, for 'JS'. I was only talking about him to the Super yesterday.'

'Julian Storrs?'

Morse grinned. 'Perhaps all of 'em are dons at Lonsdale.'

Til check.'

'So that leaves Items seven and eight - both of which I leave in your capable hands, Lewis. And lastly my own little assignment in Soho, Item nine.'

'Coffee, sir?'

'Glass of iced orange juice!'

After Lewis had gone, Morse re-read Ellie's letter, deeply hurt, and wondering whether people in the ancient past had found it quite so difficult to cope with disappointments deep as his. But at least things were over; and in the long run that might make things much easier. He tore the letter in two, in four, in eight, in sixteen, and then in thirty-two - would have torn it in sixty-four, had his fingers been strong enough - before dropping the little square pieces into his wastepaper basket.

'No ice in the canteen, sir. Machine's gone kaput'

Morse shrugged indifferently and Lewis, sensing that the time might be opportune, decided to say something which had been on his mind:

'Just one thing I'd like to ask...'

Morse looked up sharply, 'ifou're not going to ask me where Lonsdale is, I hope!'

'No. I'd just like to ask you not to be too hard on that new secretary of yours, that's all.'

'And what the hell's that got to do with you?'

'Nothing really, sir.'

'I agree. And when I want your bloody advice on how to handle my secretarial staff, I'll come and ask for it. Clear?'

Morse's eyes were blazing anew. And Lewis, his own temperature now rising rapidly, left his superior's office without a further word.

Just before noon, Jane Edwards was finalizing an angry letter, spelling out her resignation, when she heard the message over the intercom: Morse wanted to see her in his office.

'Si'down!'

She sat down, noticing immediately that he seemed tired, the whites of his eyes lightly veined with blood.

'I'm sorry I got so cross, Jane. That's all I wanted to say.'

She remained where she was, almost mesmerized.

Very quietly he continued: 'You will try to forgive me - please?'

She nodded helplessly, for she had no choice.

And Morse smiled at her sadly, almost gratefully, as she left

Back in the typing pool Ms Jane Edwards surrep-

titiously dabbed away the last of the slowdropping tears, tore up her letter (so carefully composed) into sixty- four pieces; and suddenly felt, as if by some miracle of St Anthony, most inexplicably happy.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

A recent survey has revealed that 80.5% of Oxford dons seek out the likely pornographic potential on the Internet before making use of that facility for purposes connected with their own disciplines or research. The figure for students, in the same university, is 2% lower